Firdauz takes 5

“Do you guys still serve food at this hour?” I knew that the word notte had something to do with the english word “night”, but i wasn’t so sure what mezza meant.

“Yes, we still serve food at this hour Sir.”

Mezza Notte was an italian word for midnight. They were playing Radiohead’s Climbing Up The Walls when i put my right foot on the floor. The zealous glands in my tummy were playing an acidic Rock n Roll intestinal music – i was hungry. Hungrier than those Central African people if i had to exaggerate. Emptier than the space devoid of particles, if i had to fabricate. The night was Thursday the 27th, 10.30 pm – it had been 5 days since i last had a proper meal. So i secretly counted the money in my pocket, and softly whispered to myself that the money was more than enough to pick up the foreseen bill.

I was a skilled labourer, i didn’t earn a sky-high salary. But it was enough for me to once in a while, lavish them notes on good food and wine.

On good food and wine at Mezza Notte in Jalan Doraisamy was where i saw 2 interesting couples who had summoned the raw words from the kitchen and served them well-done in my plate. Every letter was brown and a bit charred. With a knife and a slightly cruel intention, i quickly cut those words into 2 portions, each for different couple. “And the dessert will write me the 3rd story,” i thought.

First scene, take 1.

They looked like they were from Central America, the girl was pretty, had dark hair, not too tall not too short. Her partner looked like he came from the same land as the girl. The guy was sitting on the bench, the girl sat on a chair next to him, both seemed so relaxed to be in their own territory. They ordered few courses of meals, they swapped plates, they talked less, they touched less, and yet they smiled more. They had a compact camera with them and they did take a lot of pictures.

Second scene, take 11.

Take 12 if you want. Take 43 if Steven Spielberg was dining with me. This was the scene where acting looked artificial and being natural looked worse. The pretty girl in red was a local, the foreign guy in a white shirt happened to be in this locale. I happened to watch them and to write this entry. They ordered 2 starters, 2 glasses of red wine, the girl did most of the talking. It didn’t look to me like they were enjoying the food, not as much as the first couple. It looked like this was among their first dates, seating awkwardly facing each other, didn’t laugh that much, their smiles lacking character and individuality, even when their hands were touching almost the entire night, perhaps they needed it to create a warmer experience. But it was too cold when the guy picked his teeth after the meal and the girl picked up the bill with her blue-coulered plastic card after the meal.

Plastic card for a synthetic dinner.

Third scene, take 5 and chill out.

The dessert was on the house. They made 2 mistakes, i did 1. So i won and they paid.

“Excuse me, i think i ordered pinot noir and this is merlot. Well, i’m okay with merlot, but could you please check the order i made to see whether it is billed correctly under merlot and not pinor noir.” After a glass, i noticed my first mistake – i nodded yes when the first waiter asked me if he could open the bottle for me.

“And oh, i ordered pasta olio with prawns, but there wasn’t any prawn in this pasta. And my soup of the day has not come yet.” Because i didn’t like losing, i pointed out the 2 mistakes that they did.

In this restaurant, pinot noir went by its italian name – pinot nero. That was how the first waiter got it mixed up thinking i ordered merlot. They explained, i apologized, they apologized, i thanked them, they thanked me. We gave each other fair chances to fix our mistakes. The soup came, the pasta came again with prawns this time, they smiled, i smiled.

“It’s our signature dessert, it’s on the house.” I ordered a dessert, but they said it was on the house. It was really delicious, i thanked and complimented them.

I left home with a bottle of wine. Thinking about the free dessert and the experience of dining alone. And the other signature dessert who later came to stay overnight with me.

Both desserts were seriously delicious.

Aku tenung langit, suram.

“Nak hujan kot,” kata hati aku. Lantaklah, gelap sangat, aku rindu warna biru.

Jadi aku lajukan tangan, koyak-koyakan awan berkepul-kepul warna hitam itu. Tersembul matahari, mencurah-curah warna jingga atas badan aku. Panas. Melecur kulit, terbakar semua yang pahit. Menyala semua yang perit. Terang benderang tanah warna merah ini.

Tanah merah bawah kaki kiri dan kanan.

Bumi untuk penulis yang telah mati.

Untuk si penulis yang mati di hempap berat besi ke dada. Sarat dengan geram. Melarat dengan dendam. Memang dah mati. Takde jiwa dalam hati. “Penulis ape engkau ni?” aku ludah-ludahkan lagi. Aku tonjol batu petanda yang ade nama, yang bergaris tarikh matinya.

Firdauz. 2008-2008. Mati semalam. Lahir pagi tadi.

If it was a paid job, i would have made the world’s richest pro-procrastinator.

I did it again. It wasn’t because i didn’t feel that stinging sensation beneath my skin when time slapped me hard in the face. “Wake up you lazy bastard.” The time was 10.00 am, the day was a bright Saturday on the 21st, and the need to have gotten myself a bear costume for a party had not been carried out.

With pride in my butt and shame in my face, i reluctantly called up few friends, apologized to them for interrupting their morning, and thanked them all for giving me tips. From Damansara to the center of Klang Valley, to the many buildings in Ampang i went searching for a bear costume. But a bear costume had not been found by 1.30 pm. What i had found at 1.30 pm was a Persian restaurant that served delicious Persian food. What this Persian restaurant found an hour later at about 2.30 pm was my cellphone which i carelessly left.

The day was a tad reckless.

(more…)

Well, they kinda need me to go to the Nuffnang Wild ‘Live’ Blogging this saturday in a bear costume.

So Firdauz the kitteh got scared.

I’ll stop kissing random girls.

If that what i did wrong, i’m sorry.

=(

God wants you to draw.

That’s a religious fact. But sadly, i’m too lazy to provide you with all the valid evidence that supports this argument. You just gotta trust yourself (and God).

I first started drawing portraits at the age of 18. I had never done any drawing that i could be proud of before this. Be it a simple stickman or just sketches of fat men. Drawing was something that i believed ermm i needed to be talented in it, a gift from my God to only few selected pedigree. That i was descended from the wrong family tree.

I was wrong. Like i always had been philosophically wrong about my God, not until i met God Himself and we traded ideas. Since then, I have always been factually right about Him. “Quid pro Quo,” He said in latin. I gave Him my soul, He gave me an assurance that one day, he’ll come and visit my blog and i will be able to write a dedicated entry for Him, and treat Him fairly by letting Him to comment on my blog. Non-moderated of course.

But anyway, leave aside the story of my God and me, face the fact that i am not a good drawer, in fact, i’ll be the worst person to teach anyone about drawing portraits. But that doesn’t mean i shouldn’t share. Sharing is caring. Teaching is ermmm.. something tiring? I dunno what! Ok la, teaching is caring too. But since i can’t teach, i share.

My preference would be the dry medium – graphite pencils, mechanical pencils, charcoals, ballpoint pen, soft pastels (like blackboard chalk like that), oil pastels (wax crayons) and coloured pencils. I have never tried painting before, but i’ve drawn with pen and inked brushes before though – black ink on white paper.

But being lazy, nowadays i do sketches with colour pencils on a A4 size sketch paper. I don’t do easels and big-sized papers anymore like i used to, these days i draw on my lap while sitting lazily on a wooden chair. Please do not pick up this bad habit of mine. But do, should you think that i’m super sexy, do, pick me up for dinners and lunches okay, hihi.

(more…)

Melihat payu dara and punggung yang manari-nari ketika makan malam adalah hobi terbaru saya.

Seronok!

=)

and dancing like a bimbo.

Lalalala.

“My eyes burn, everybody smokes, lalalala,
I said daaannnnger, do the smoooooke detector, lalalalala”

Lalalala.

“Hi Firdy!” she arrived with a smile, waved with her right hand, took a big turn in her red dress, skipping twenty other people and hugged me.

“I miss and i love you.” I didn’t say it out loud, but i showed it with a warm hug and a subtle kiss on her cheek.

“Look what Anna Suraya did, she go all the way to Firdauz and hug him,” said Nicholas to the rest of the people from the same table.

With the lips still shaped the warmest smile, Anna Suraya greeted the few people around me before she went back to sitting next to Nicholas, in a long table that gathered 22 people, in a restaurant that had a huge painting of God and Adam touching their fingertips painted on the wall, in the ambience of a candlelit dinner.

It was a family dinner, celebrating Stewie’s birthday with a cake and a song sang full-heatedly by the family members, whistled maybe half-heartedly by the restaurant crews, and perhaps some honest cheering from the crowd.

“So you’re the famous Firdauz!” I sat next to a person whom i never met, maybe had bumped into and perhaps had crossed paths before, but never properly introduced .

“I am, I am! Faster give me a kiss!” I raised the stainless steel cutlery up in the air with my right hand, lifted my pride up in the sky with a self compliment, lowered my moral values to at least to the bottom of my shoes of which perhaps had the highest germ counts in this restaurant. Perhaps.

“So you’re the sweet guy!” What i had lowered, she lifted it back. Her name was Kimberly, the girl who sat beside me whose face was glowing brighter than those candles in front of us, curiously wanting to know if i were the guy who many referred to as the famous Firdauz – the sweet jerk who puts his family close to his chest but claws them cruelly as much, because he believes love should wildly hurt on the surface but delicately be restored at the bottom of one’s heart.

“No no no no, Kimberly. He wrote that sweet letter to me because he was looking after a lunch date! He was using my blog, using it to link to his blog in the comment!” What Kimberly had raised beyond the heaven in which God breathes life into Adam’s fingertip, Anna Suraya brought it back to the bottom of my shoes. She was a mean person who won’t let me have my 5 second fame.

“I hate Anna Suraya!” I should have said this out loud, but instead, i joined them laughing at me. In fact, i started to laugh first and they just followed. Pride on Anna Suraya’s face to have blown the cover of my deceitful intent. If the painting of God and Adam on the restaurant’s wall were mortal, i think they would have laughed harder than we had and probably won’t stop laughing at my life. I hated the painting on the wall too.

I hated everything, everything in this restaurant.

“How was your meal Sir?” asked the local waitress who addressed me as if i was from Great Britain.

“I think it’s a bit too dry, can i have more olive oil please?” I forgot my age, i forgot the manners, i forgot to lie a little. I was an angry child who seriously hated his meal, hated everyone, stopped talking to anyone and took too long to stomach his meal until there were people who noticed it.

“Wah, you eat so slow ah Firdauz?” That was from Waffle, the guy who shared the same name as the birthday boy.

“Looks like you’re struggling to finish your meal. Is it not to your liking?” That was from Suanie.

And Suanie liked to scold me.

“Damn man, it’s Sue-A-Nie, not Sue-Ann-Nie,” other than cursing me, she liked surfing pornographic websites too, and shared the best one with the birthday boy.

“Go to http…, shhh shhh.. keep it low,” She recommended a website, and the birthday boy touched the screen of his iPhone to check out them naked ladies.

“It’s better than playboy, i never liked playboy.” Suanie forgot about the painting of God behind her. Exactly behind her.

“Your hair, your hair, your hair.” I got this from everyone. From KY to the Kung-fu Cat to the i’m-so-lazy-to-list-them-down, practically everyone had poked fun at my hair. And by poking, i meant some of them had really poked their fingers into my hair to test if i ever change my facial expression.

Me on the other hand, i poked my fingers into the melted candle and played with the soft wax.

“You’re like a child la, play with that thing,” Kimberly had learnt it from Suanie i guess. I didn’t quite understand though, why everyone had to scold me.

I then took my camera, and just spent some quality time with it. Ignoring the world.

“How long since you bought this camera,” Waffle asked.

“About a month, eh, about 2-3 months like that,” i answered.

“Looks like you just bought it yesterday.” I wasn’t so sure whether that was Waffle or it was my father who actually possessed his conscience, or to have at least whispered to his ears.

But Kimberly was sweet, for a while, when she helped me took the picture of my fingers with the hardened wax.

“Why you use the cloth to cover the camera?” I asked because i thought she hated my camera.

“So that the flash wouldn’t be too bright.” Click. She took the picture.

“It’s nice, i like it.” I thanked her. Kimberly was 4 years younger than me. But she knew a lot more than i did. I used “cloth” to refer to the napkin, she never corrected me like she corrected everyone about the vegetable soup that we had. It was called “minestrone” according to her.

According to her, and according to the rest of 21 other people of that night, there were probably too many moments that were shared among us. I loved every bit of it and glad that it was a family dinner that brought the meaning to our meal. That brought the meaning to the cake, to the birthday song that we sang together. True, there were gifts, balloons, cute little bears, flowers and cards wishing happy birthdays, but it was this family dinner that stimulated sight and softened many hearts.

Happy birthday Stewie. Will always love you.

Michelle is so cute, she even has cleavage now. Hor!

=)

I am a failed actor, remember.

Remember i shed no tears when my step dad died, when i bathed him accordingly to muslim custom, when i used both my hands to lower his body into the grave, entombing him with shovels of earth.

With shovels of earth, i’d like to be buried alive. Not with these pillows and woven fabrics on my bed. But with dirt, extra heavy maybe. To the center of gravity, just bury me there, no no, never together with my dignity. Leave my pride behind, bury me naked.

Bury me naked with your hands, gently caress the texture of my skin then quickly, scratch it. Yes, do cut several tattoos, number seventeen. Number fifteen. Number twenty eight. Just random colors, remember, just random numbers, whatever what ever a terrible actor should be tattooed with.

Crying is a feminine trait.

Crying is a feminine trait.

Crying is a feminine trait that shrinks my balls, returns me to which time the testosterone doesn’t level to my sexual maturity.

I’m a failed actor, remember. Not a baby, so don’t ask me to cry.

Okay?

Take the leather strap, fasten it to your fist, do the disciplinary things you always want to do.

I shall enjoy emo ranting.

“Bwahahahahahahahaahhahahahahahaha,”

“Hahahahahahahahahah,”

“Hihihihihihihihihihihihihi,”

“Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh,”

“……….”

Ketawa sembunyi air mata.

Macam yang selalu dibuat bloggers. Aku meniru. Mencurah padah pada kekunci bisu. Mengarah darah supaya laju ke kepala, biar terbeliak mata mata si pembaca, kan?

Kan kan?

Bila idea sudah kering, jemur kan lagi di panas matahari, biar betul betul gersang. Seribu lubang mesti ditebuk, kira sampai genap jangan satu pun kurang. Seribu tahu?

Kemudian lemparkan idea yang ringan itu menegak ke udara, sambut bukan dengan tangan, tadah dengan senyum di muka, gigit dengan bibir, rasa dgn lidah, ludah ia kembali ke tanah.

Ape rasa?

The declaration of love between her parents, made up her name. We were playing anagram 7 o’clock in the morning.

“My mother’s name is ** and my father’s name is **,” with no delay, i wrote them both on a piece of paper. Ready to guess what her name was.

“My name has only 6 letters,” I drew 6 underlines. “Only 1 word? No first or a second name?” I was curious to know. “Nope, just a 6 letter name, all in a 1 word,” she answered me.

“** yang ** cintai,” she wrote that on the paper. “That was what my mother told me what my name stands for.” People don’t lie at 7am in the morning. She didn’t too.

She, the girl whom i managed to finally guess her name an hour later, was my lunch date of that day. Only she came a bit earlier, actually a bit too early.

She came to my place at 5am in the morning.

She came to hang out with me the entire morning, the entire day, the entire evening.

Wait, dial back the whirling time so it puzzles you less.

We, i mean her and me, have never met before June 1st, 5am on a sunday morning. I swear to God i never knew her name until about 3 hours later that morning. I swear to God we did have our lunch as a date later that afternoon.

So what did i call her before that morning then? I called her “Sayang“, just like i called everyone “Sayang“. Now you know my darkest secret.

So what name appeared on the screen of my cellphone when she called me then? Sayang 1? Sayang 2? Sayang 11? Don’t puzzle yourself with more riddles, it only suggests of how typical a guy can be, but of course, you’re probably right too anyway. I’m just like any other jerky guys with no brains. I actually put her internet nickname into my phonebook. As jerky as that.

Good, now that i don’t have to swear anymore and i think God just hates me whenever i spell his name out just to help you to understand few awkward lines, just to get you to read what’s on my mind, and probably to laugh a little. It was a full stop wasn’t it? The sentence before this. Weird writing this one is.

As weird as my day was. I spent 14 hours from 5am till 7pm with a lunch date who slept on my bed, showered in my bathroom, went home with my t-shirt, left her t-shirt and her jumper here so i could send to laundry, and shared lunch delivered to my condo in the 17th floor.

“A01, A05, A11, B02, B03, C01, C04.” We ordered 3 main dishes, 2 side dishes and 2 desserts. Those were the codes from the menu i kept in the kitchen drawer.

“Kesiannya you, nak makan je kena call, Hello, saya nak makan!” She laughed at my strange way of having meals at home.

“…..” I think, i will always be good at making cheap and dirty facial expressions. Because she pitied every sad hideous face i made.

“Awww… nanti you kena beli this and that, start cooking simple meal like this and that.” Girls, they like to rule guys’ lives don’t they? In a good way i mean.

She ruled my bed, i slept in the living room. She ruled my living room, i went back to my bed. I hid under the blanket, she came underneath it. I closed my eyes, she kissed me and then asked “Is this wrong?”

I haven’t really answered that.